As I plunged into the chilly waters of the Mediterranean at 6am on Sunday morning, it occurred to me that Cannes is always worth it. Frankly, this year I hesitated. There would be a train to pay for, and a hotel, not to mention outrageously overpriced drinks. And getting to Cannes was much harder than I thought. First my train was cancelled due to the strike. Arriving at the airport, I saw that my last minute flight was cancelled, too. I tried another train and made it as far as Marseille, where I was stranded until Friday morning.
When I finally arrived in Cannes, what did I find? A lacklustre print selection, a misguided obsession with social networking, American domination and a film prize that went to a conventional spot. At least the French pulled something out of «The Closet», if you'll excuse the pun. And yet… there's nothing quite like hanging out on the terrace of the Carlton and running into people you haven't seen for years. Oh look, there's Jess from 180. And Jane from Campaign. And so on. Even my little speech about the future of print on Saturday morning reaped rewards: yes, University of Milan, I would be happy to accept your invitation.
Later, inevitably, the Gutter Bar. Then the sun edging slowly from the sea. And finally that icy plunge, with three London girls and a couple of random Mexicans. Cannes sera toujours Cannes.
